


You're My Friend

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John can be an idiot, Sherlock is adorable, The Blind Banker, Wilkes is a git, gen - Freeform, h/c, platonic soulmates (cause they totally are)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why didn't Sherlock tell John the truth about what happened inside Soo Lin's flat?</p><p>[“Colleague,” Sherlock repeated, but he said it like it was the worst curse word he could think of. “That’s how you described yourself to Sebastian. It was my belief that a <i>colleague</i> should only be informed of injury when it prevents the work from being completed."]</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're My Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> This little one-shot has been buzzing around inside my head for ages. I had to write it down.

As soon as the cab had pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street Sherlock was out of the car in a flurry of dark coat. John sighed as the cabbie looked at him and dug into his pocket for money. He threw a handful of notes into the front seat and climbed out. His head was pounding and he felt a bit nauseous, but it was nothing that a couple of paracetamol, a hot shower and good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure. All he wanted to do was lie down on the nearest flat surface and go to sleep and forget about everything that had happened, including the fact that Sarah probably wouldn’t want anything else to do with him after the disaster that was tonight’s date, if it could even be called that anymore.

As always, his plans were derailed by his genius flatmate, who was propped up in the corner against the window by the time John came in. The flat was still a bloody mess, he noted with dismay, but Sherlock appeared to have bypassed all that and already had his violin tucked underneath his chin. Or at least, he was trying. Even as John stood by and watched, Sherlock grimaced with what could only be pain when he accidentally brushed the instrument against his throat, and all of a sudden John recalled seeing him struggle against a tightly woven scarf that had been knotted too well. More importantly, what he _didn’t_ remember was seeing him being checked over by a paramedic.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing his face wearily. Chances were Sherlock was just fine, the git who apparently had more lives than a cat, but he wasn’t willing to take that chance. “Sherlock.” No response. “Sherlock. _Sherlock_!”

Still nothing: just a jagged discord of fragmented notes that should not have been able to be produced by any instrument and which only added to the growing pain in John’s head. Making a face, he moved forward and caught at Sherlock’s wrist before he could draw the bow across the strings again. Sherlock stilled under the touch, though he didn’t turn around to face John. 

“Your neck,” John said by way of explanation, gently unclasping Sherlock’s fingers from around the bow. “I need to look at it. He could’ve done you some serious danger.”

“I’m fine,” said Sherlock, but the paltry reassurance did little to assuage John’s concern. Now that he was listening closely he could hear the slight break in Sherlock’s voice, the raspy little wheeze that indicated his vocal chords had not escaped the evening unscathed. 

“Pull the other one, Sherlock. Now sit down and let me have a look.” 

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, his expression calculating as though trying to figure out whether or not John would let this go. John stared back, trying to project that in spite of how exhausted he was, he was very willing to wrestle Sherlock down to get a look at his neck if only to be sure that the idiot wasn’t going to expire during the night. He didn’t know if it came across properly but Sherlock’s lips quirked into the faintest of smiles and he set his violin back in its case before moving over to the sofa and sitting down. Relieved, John followed.

“Tilt your head up and look up at the ceiling,” he instructed. There was a small torch on the desk and he grabbed it, shining the light on the pale skin. What he saw made him wince. Sherlock’s throat was liberally coated in bright red marks, smudged haphazardly into the shape of large male hands. The skin was swollen and felt overly hot to the touch. John was as gentle as possible, his fingertips barely skimming the mottled surface, and yet Sherlock flinched anyway, a soft huff escaping his lips.

“Satisfied, Doctor?” he asked.

“I can’t see any serious - ” John stopped abruptly and tilted his head. He could tell, out of the corner of his eye, that Sherlock had tensed a little and was now watching him instead of the ceiling but he didn’t care. All of his attention was focused on the bared skin before him. There was _bruising_ on Sherlock’s neck beneath the vivid red marks and it wasn’t fresh. Some of it had already darkened into deep purple and black, edged with green and the faintest tinge of yellow that indicated it was at least a day or two old.

For all that Sherlock scorned him for being slow on a regular basis, it only took a moment for him to put it together. To remember General Shan’s lazy smirk as she bragged about the warnings they’d had, one more than John knew about. To remember standing outside of Soo Lin Yao’s flat and having a member of the Black Lotus close enough to hear him talking. To remember Sherlock being inside and failing to answer his demands and thinking that Sherlock was too caught up in the case to bother caring about anyone else. To remember the wheezing afterwards and his own bloody question about a cold.

Very slowly John shut the torch off and straightened up. “Sherlock,” he said with exaggerated patience, “were you strangled before?”

There was a succinct pause before Sherlock said, “Yes. I’ve been strangled many times, John.”

“Jesus,” John muttered. “No, I meant at Soo Lin’s flat. Were you - did the Spider strangle you there?”

Sherlock twisted his mouth and resolutely refused to answer. That, in itself, was answer enough.

“And you - you didn’t think to mention this?” Thoroughly incensed, John returned his hands to Sherlock’s throat, searching a little more aggressively for any damage beyond the bruising. His mind was racing, cataloguing what could have happened and how close Sherlock had come to being left with lasting injuries. Being strangled once was bad enough, but _twice_ in as many days? It was a doctor’s nightmare.

“Ow,” Sherlock said pointedly and John stared at him for a minute before realizing he was probing the tender skin a little too forcefully. He frowned but eased up on the pressure.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. 

“We were in the middle of a case and it was just transport,” Sherlock answered.

John might have believed him had he not been close enough to feel the tension in Sherlock’s body. “Didn’t you think about the lingering effects? Sherlock, this kind of thing can have repercussions afterwards. If you had collapsed I wouldn’t have known what was wrong. You could’ve died and I…” Words failed him and he exhaled shakily. Sometimes the worst fears were the ones you didn’t even know you had until they were realized.

“I didn’t think you would care,” said Sherlock, and then he frowned, like he hadn’t meant for that to come out. John took a step back and stared at him.

“What made you think that? I’m your _friend_ , you idiot, I would - ”

“Colleague.”

The sharply bitten off word made John pause. He was far too tired for this but there was no escaping the gleam in Sherlock’s eyes. “What?” he asked carefully.

“Colleague,” Sherlock repeated, but he said it like it was the worst curse word he could think of. “That’s how you described yourself to Sebastian. It was my belief that a _colleague_ should only be informed of injury when it prevents the work from being completed. Now I understand that in your professional capacity as a doctor you feel you should have done something sooner, but you’re not _my_ doctor, John, so don’t concern yourself with me.”

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did to hear that. John swallowed and then swallowed some more. He took another step back, belatedly realizing that his fingers were still on Sherlock’s throat, and let his hands drop to his sides. Sebastian Wilkes was one of the biggest arses that John had ever had the misfortune of meeting. He’d known from the second that the man entered the room that he would be trouble it had only escalated. John had never seen anyone treat Sherlock like that. No, that wasn’t correct: he’d never seen Sherlock be _affected_ by it. Sherlock was usually above the disdain, the looks, the comments, but Sebastian had got to him. The look on Sherlock’s face - a look that, on anyone else, would’ve been described as wounded - when Sebastian had said that everyone had hated him in uni was still with John; he didn’t think he’d ever forget it.

“Sherlock, I didn’t…” There were a dozen ways to finish that sentence: I didn’t think you’d care. I didn’t think it would matter. I didn’t want that bastard to have anything else to tease you about. I didn’t punch him in the face but I really wish I had. He finished with, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock snorted and made to stand up, and John realized in a flash of chilling insight that if he allowed Sherlock to walk away that this - whatever this was - would never be the same. He could already see Sherlock closing himself off, re-building the walls that John had, amazingly, somehow made it past, and all because of a stupid, one off comment that John wasn’t even sure why he’d made. Without thinking he grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and pushed him back down, stepping closer so that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to get up without bringing them into an uncomfortable amount of contact. Being that this was Sherlock, who had the tendency to ignore any and all concept of personal space when it came to John, he kept his hands on the slender shoulders for good measure.

“Listen,” he said with an exaggerated amount of patience. “I was… it was stupid on my part, alright? If I’d known that you were…” not worried, no, “thinking about it all this time I would’ve said something sooner. You’re my friend, Sherlock.”

Those pale eyes stared at him silently for a full minute before Sherlock spoke. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does,” John said firmly. Sherlock might have been pretending to be a sociopath who didn’t care about anyone, but John knew differently. “You’re important to me and not just because of the cases. Even if you woke up tomorrow and couldn’t work I wouldn’t leave. You do know that, don’t you?” He studied the silent man in front of him and decided that Sherlock probably didn’t. “I like spending time with you. I want to take care of you when you’re hurt or sick and not just because I’m a doctor. Even when you frustrate me to the point where I want to punch you in the face, I still won’t leave because you’re my friend. My _best_ friend.” He drew back and took a deep breath, suddenly a little embarrassed by his passionate outburst, but needing to add one last thing. “And if I made you doubt that then I’m sorry.”

When Sherlock just kept staring at him, John grew flustered. He started to turn away, intending to fetch the paracetamol to soothe both the ache in his head and Sherlock’s throat, but long fingers caught his wrist. John turned his head, startled, as Sherlock said quietly, “Thank you.”

John looked at him and had to smile. He put his other hand on Sherlock’s wrist and squeezed it gently, feeling that a weight he hadn’t known existed had been removed from both their shoulders. “It’s fine,” he replied. “It’s all… fine.”


End file.
